Peony In Love
by varietyofwords
Summary: Future fic. Oneshot. Chuck and Blair. "Thirty-nine peonies this year. Forty the next. All hand delivered to that exact spot on exactly this date at exactly the time of the crash."


**Author's Note:** First of all, the title of this one is blatantly stolen from Lisa See's novel, _Peony in Love_. The similarities end there. Second, might I suggest you listen to "In Safe Hands" by Badly Drawn Boy whilst reading? And, finally, tissue warning.

* * *

"I wanna be with you."

His hand twitches against her leg, and she gently pulls it into her lap. Her delicate, soft fingers trace the line in the palm of his hand; follow his lifeline from beginning to end. He wheezes, sputters, and coughs.

"Will you have Dorota send your things?"

He chokes out the words with a small smirk across his lips, and she tries to reward his attempt at a joke with a laugh. Yet the unshed tears glisten and shine like diamonds her eyes. She turns away from him to wipe them away, and the moisture collects on her fingers like dewdrops on peonies.

"Blair," he calls out gently. She turns her attention back to him, wipes her hands off on her Waldorf Original dress without concern for the expensive, dry clean only fabric. "I have to go alone."

"But –" she sputters. A sob tears through her body, leaves a quaking mass in its wake. "I need to be with you!"

"Blair," he cautions softly. He swallows his own emotion, turns the hand in her lap so he can stroke her kneecap through her tights in reassurance. "Letting me go is the right thing to do."

A cough rumbles in his chest, rips through him with such ferocity that he is left wheezing and straining to breathe. A shadow moves in the corner of her eye, and she almost turns her head to snap at them to do something. Anything. Everything.

But he flicks his wrist and waves them off. Even now he can command a room with a subtle movement and a harden glare. Tonight, however, his eyes are focused solely on her as he takes one haggard breath and then another, as he fights the darkness creeping over him.

"Do me one thing before I go," he beseeches softly. Those in the room can barely hear him, but she anticipates his request before he can finish it. Her lips crash against his, cutting off his words at "Kiss me, Blair Wal—"

The kiss is soft and sweet, hungry and heartfelt. The warmth of her lips transfer to the coolness of his, and she could have been lulled into the delusion that this was not happening had his chest not contracted under her hand. She pulls herself away, whimpers at just how breathless he has become. She presses her forehead against his, draws in a huge breath as he struggles to find his own weak one.

"Three words," he offers softly. "Eight letters."

She swallows the lump her throat, closes her eyes as she speaks the words that only he deserves.

"I am yours and you are mine," she offers back softly. "I love you."

She shifts her body down the bed, carefully avoids the tubes and wires as she curls herself around him. Her arm drapes across his chest; her other hand reaches down and holds his. She presses the front of her body against the side of his and gently places her head on his chest until the thump of his heart echoes in her ear.

_Thump. Thump._

A shadow looms over them both, gathers the hand she is not holding and clutches it tightly. The others in the room hang back; decide not to intrude on this private moment as the grown man lets out a shaky breath in time with the two lying in the bed. Two tears escape from his eyes, roll down his cheeks, and fall onto the starched pillowcase as he leans down to place a gentle kiss against the temple of the man in the bed.

"I love you, Daddy."

The final word, the use of a term of endearment he has not heard since the grown man was a little boy washes over him and causes him to close his eyes. The beating of his heart slows and stalls until it is nothing more than a soft echo in her ear. The machines around them beep frantically, and she shuts her eyes at the intrusion as her own tears leave a wet stain on his silk pajama top. Thankfully, someone steps forward and shuts off the machines until there are no sounds in the room save for sniffles and sobs.

She presses her body closer, tries to transfer her warmth to his cooling form. Life with regrets is a terrible way live, but in this moment she desperately wishes she could have those years spent fighting, denying, and hiding from their pull back again to do over with him.

Time passes. Maybe an hour or maybe a minute. Either way, for her, time has stopped. Strong arms scoop her up, hold her close when the tries to fight and claw against the separation. And then as the door shuts and they are separated forever, she closes her eyes and prays for God to take her too.

* * *

Her decent down the steps of her brownstone only two months later is nothing short of miraculous – the sort of event actually worthy of a post on the long defunct gossip website of her youth. Other women – women who are not her – would have dressed themselves in the colors of the season, but she takes her queues from a higher power. Queen Victoria wore black for forty years, and nobody does black quite like Blair Waldorf. She only prays she does not have to wear this color for so long else she might have to switch to white a la Queen Fabiola and the French.

White, of course, brings up its own issues and memories of standing there and wanting to die. She had been a child then, didn't know what wanting to die really meant, but her feelings had been felt with such intensity in that moment that it is hard to deny them now. A moment full of issues and memories she refuses to dwell on today of all days, and she pushes them out of her mind as she walks silently down the street. Those who live on the street as well greet her by name, offer her their deepest condolences and hush children who ask probing question as to why she looks so sad.

She moves through the park past the tourists and happy couples in silence, makes a point of avoiding those sites that hold special memories for her. She slows as she rounds the bend and reaches her destination, steps into the shadows afforded by the trees and tugs on her black beret in an attempt to shield herself from view.

The sun sets and darkness falls around her. For a brief moment, she thinks that he would be angry with her for being here alone at night, and then she remembers that he is no longer here and she has to shut her eyes at the knowledge.

She opens them when she hears footsteps in the distance. She peers out between the branches of the trees hiding her from view; watches as a massive bouquet of pink peonies is placed on top of the stone wall. Relief rushes through her, and then the breath she did not realize she was holding escapes when the streetlight illuminates the face of the man leaving the flowers behind.

Her brain races and she only manages to pull herself together as the man turns and starts to walk away. He is heading away from her rather than towards her, and she steps back into the street to call after him. The name – as familiar to her as her own – falls from her lips in a panic tone, and she watches as the man freezes in motion. He turns, walks steadily towards her as her eyes search his for answers.

"What –"

She stumbles over the words as she tries to formulate all her emotions and questions into a single sentence. His hand curls about her arm protectively, tries to steady her even as she tries to push him away. She shakes her head as though she can shake off the confusion.

"I don't understand," she breathes.

"Mom," he replies. "You shouldn't be out here this late. Alone."

The last word is short and staccato, sounds exactly how his father would have sounded in this moment. She points towards the peonies, directs his attention to the gift he has left behind. He flushes with guilt, and he only looks at her when she drags his chin and holds it so he cannot look away from her. His eyes are beseeching hers; his eyes are a mirror image of hers.

"I'm sorry," he apologies immediately. "I didn't want to tell you. I didn't want to hurt you."

She softens at his apology, strokes his cheek tenderly before moving away from him. She walks calmly, slowly towards the stone wall and scoops the massive bouquet up in her arms. Her head drops so she can inhale their sweet scent. A shaky hand reaches out, touches the wall with a certain amount of reverence. And then she puts the peonies back in their place, swallows the lump in her throat, and whispers her own private prayer.

Without a backwards glance, without counting each and every bud, she turns on her heels and walks away. She bypasses her son because she cannot bear to look him in the eye and see the reflectance of everything she has lost staring back at her. But he is determined and nearly jogs to catch up with her.

"Mom," he beseeches.

Henry reaches for her hand, stills her movements as he captures her tiny pinkie with his whole hand. There was a time when he could barely clasp his fingers around her smallest finger, when his whole hand curled around her pinkie finger with room to spare. She pauses, looks down at their entwined hands, and marvels at the passage of time.

She looks up at him, raises a shaky hand, and brushes the dark lock of hair out of his eyes. His father used too much gel; he uses too little gel. She draws a deep breath, leans forward to place a soft kiss against his cheek, and whispers in his ear with a shaky breath.

"Come with me."

* * *

She leads him to the Met steps, to the site where she drew her strength and power all those years ago. She sits down, pats the empty space on the step next to her in encouragement for him to join her. And then she smiles when he immediately begins apologizing for some perceived slight. She and he would have never apologized at even the hint of wrongdoing, but their son is the product of a different kind of a childhood. A happy, content childhood shielded away from pain.

"You had a sister."

Her words silence him, leave him sputtering and choking on his own words. He gazes up at her. Not because he is geographically situated below her on the steps, but because she is his mother and he will always look up to her.

"Or a brother," she offers after a long pause. "I'm not really sure. It was too early."

Henry mulls over the information, wonders how he could have never known about the possibility of being an older brother. He had always wanted a sibling, begged his parents for one at the age of five until his father pulled him aside and sternly explained that it was never going to happen. He had bought the line that he was more than enough, but he got older, saw the way his mother looked at Aunt Serena's and Uncle Nate's babies, and always wondered if there was more to the story.

"Mother's intuition tells me it was a girl, but –"

She pauses again, hesitates as she tries to muster all the courage she has inside of her. All these years and yet the wound is still too raw. It is easier to push the memory out of her mind, to think of the baby in the abstract.

"The peonies are for her."

He smiles uncontrollably at the realization that the flowers were not for the horrible scenarios – namely a mistress or a past lover his father had not been able to let go – he had twisted in his mind. He had heard rumblings of a woman named Eva when rumors surfaced of him becoming involved with a girl named Evan. (The rumors had been lies, spread by him to get back at the girl he really was in love with, the girl his mother pretended not to approve of.) Yet the edict of this particular number of flowers had brought the long forgotten name back to the forefront of his mind.

He flushes with shame at the realization that he had doubted his personal hero. He should have known that his father would never send his mother's favorite flower to another woman. He should have known that his father would never have someone else on the side. Because his mother is his father's alpha and omega, his beginning and his end; because none one loves with as much passion and intensity as Chuck loves Blair and Blair loves Chuck.

"I'm sorry," he whispers softly as he reaches up and captures her hand in his. She glances down at him, focuses on the way his fingers stroke her knuckles when that used to be her job.

"You doubted him," she replies evenly, and he flinches at the undertone of accusation. "He would have been so upset that you thought so lit—"

"No," he interjects. "I know better. I know there is no Chuck Bass without Blair Waldorf."

She offers him a twisted smile, lets his lie pass by without commentary at the reminder of what Chuck said to her years and years ago. There is no Chuck Bass without Blair Waldorf, but he had forgotten the most important part – there is no Blair Waldorf without Chuck Bass.

"I was just – I didn't understand. He was so insistent. Thirty-nine peonies this year. Forty the next. All hand delivered to that exact spot on exactly this date at exactly –"

"The time of the crash," she fills in softly.

"Crash?" He echoes.

She closes her eyes at the reminder. She fights the images of him bloodied and broken in that hospital room, of her waking up and hearing those horrific words that haunt her even today. She is pulled from that nightmare by the soft hand against her cheek, at the soft words breathed out into the nighttime sky.

"Mama," he whispers, switching to the little used moniker for his remaining parent. "What crash?"

"The car accident."

She swallows the memories, pushes them deep down within in until she can finally open her eyes and stare into those of the living. She reaches out, traces the back of her hand along his chiseled jaw.

"You look so much like your dad," she informs him tenderly. "That baby – he or she would have looked like Louis."

"Louis?" He questions, brow furrowed at the name of his mother's first husband.

She had always been upfront about that particular moment in her life. She had no choice given the Wikipedia page about her short, failed marriage and time as the Princess of Monaco. But every time she would mention her first marriage – an occurrence Henry can count on one hand – she would smile over him at his father and say something along the lines about how the first was merely a stop along the way to her final destination, to her role as the Queen of the Upper East Side.

"It wouldn't have mattered, though," she replies completely lost in her own thoughts. "He or she could have been born green, and your father would have loved that baby."

His head spins at the comment, at the knowledge that his brother or sister would have been older than him and only related to him through his mother. And then he finds himself shaking his head, rejecting the words pouring out of his mother's mouth.

"You're wrong," he replies. "Dad wouldn't have loved that baby. He did love that baby. He does love that baby."

"I know," she agrees quietly. "He promised to love that baby as much as he loved me. He didn't care that it wasn't his biologically. It was going to be his. It was going to be ours."

He could press his mother for more information, question what exactly caused the car accident and what exactly happened to his older sibling. But there are bigger questions weighing on his mind, and he desperately wants those answers before his mother – a woman who has never looked this frail in his entire life – falls apart in his arms again.

"Did you know?"

She turns her head, looks at him through the clouding mist of unshed tears and painful memories. She raises an eyebrow, silently asks him to repeat and clarify his question.

"Did you know about the flowers?"

"No," she replies. "Not at first."

He figured that she already knew based on the fact that she came here and discovered him trying to carry out his father's final wishes. But he wants a timeline, needs to know why his father had charged him with this particular task.

"I didn't deal with this – the baby, the car accident – well. I married Louis and then dated Dan Hump–"

"Dan Humphrey?" He interrupts and questions indignantly. "Uncle Dan?"

Of course, as a teenager, he had read Uncle Dan's first novel because he had been rebelling against his father and mother's edict that such filth and lies never be brought into their home. He had always assumed the relationship between Dylan Hunter and Clair Carlyle had been fictitious because the very idea had been too gross to believe.

His mother ignores his question as she moves on her with story. She glosses over the in between parts as she states that she eventually found her way back to his father, how the two married quickly and got pregnant immediately following their wedding.

"I was so scared the entire time, and then you came out so tiny and perfect and I couldn't pretend anymore. I felt so guilty for trying to forget, and your dad had some crisis at Bass Industries that night. So I bundled you up, took you out way past your bedtime, and walked to that exact spot almost on auto-pilot. And then I found the peonies – one for each year – and –"

She drags in a shaky breath, chokes back the sob threatening to escape. She sweeps her hair out of her eyes, glances up and fixates her gaze on the cityscape in front of her. A stretched limo whizzes by; a yellow taxi honks its horn.

"I never knew for sure, but I suspected. We never talked about it, and I never asked him," she informs him. "But I worried that after – I worried no one would bring her flowers. She deserves flowers."

He wants to tell her that the flowers weren't for the baby, wants to explain that the flowers were for the baby's mother more than anyone else. Instead, he swallows the words as he scoots closer to his mother and gathers her into a hug.

"I love you, and I love Dad," he reminds her. She rests her head on his shoulder at the reminder, sheds a tear as he repeats his promise to his father to her. "I promise I will bring her flowers."

* * *

_The twitch of a finger, a groggy moan, and he raises his head off the back of the chair where it lulled in sleep to seek out the source of the movements and sounds. He watches his father blink once, twice – three times. He blinks his own eyes in an attempt to wake himself up as he stands up and makes eye contact with his father. _

"_You're awake," he exhales. "Let me go get Mom."_

"_No," his father groans as he reaches out and weakly grasps for his son's hand. "Just you."_

"_Dad," he starts knowing how angry his mother would be if she found out his father had awoken and he had not immediately fetched her._

"_I need to talk to you," his father wheezes and sputters. "Alone."_

_He cannot image what else they have to say. They had spoken at length about Bass Industries; he had listened as his father assured him over and over that he had full confidence in him. The reminders were unnecessary, but both his parents had been so insistent that he understand the company was his without strings attached and without hesitation. _

"_Peonies," his father says. "You have to buy peonies."_

_The reference to his mother's favorite flower is an odd one, and he finds himself wondering why his father would bring them up now. He smiles at his dad, assures him that he will buy his mother peonies for her birthday. But his father rejects the assurance with an uncharacteristically violent shake of his head in protest. _

"_Buy thirty-nine peonies. Forty next year," his father replies. "Add one more each year."_

_His father ignores his quizzical look as he launches into a rundown of a particular location in Central Park, a particular day of the year, and a particular time of day. He repeats the information again, demands that his son repeat the edicts back to him over and over until he is sure there will not be any mistake._

"_Dad," he questions softly, "who are the peonies for? Why so many?"_

"_No one will bring her flowers when I'm gone," his father ambiguously replies, refusing to elaborate on who this woman is. "She deserves flowers."_

"_Dad," he asks again as his father's eyes flutter. The moniker keeps him fighting to stay awake, but he is quickly losing his battle._

"_She deserves more," his father bemoans. "I try so hard. I love her so."_

_His father swipes his tongue across his chapped lips as he struggles to formulate the words. His son helps him sit up, offers him the cup of water beside his bed, and watches as he slowly drinks the water through the straw. Chuck starts to fall back against the pillow, but then he holds himself upright for just a moment and his eyes open wide, drill into his son with stunning clarity._

"_Promise me you'll bring her flowers," he beseeches. "Promise me, Henry."_

"_I promise," he replies. "I promise I will bring her flowers."_

"_Thank you," his father whispers. "I love you, Henry."_

_His father falls back against the pillow and closes his eyes before Henry can repeat the words back to his father. For a moment, he thinks that maybe this interaction was all just a hallucination on his part, but then his father opens his mouth again and jerks a shaky hand towards the door._

"_Get your mother. It's time for me to go."_


End file.
